


A Good Team

by propheticfire



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Depictions of depression, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Healing, Loss of Limbs, Redemption, Sort Of, Tarrlok lives AU, Tarrlok's POV, a short one-shot that got out of hand, abuse of commas lol, allies to enemies to friends to lovers, if you consider the entirety of their relationship arc within the series as well as the fic, mild description of explosion-related injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 04:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21247745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propheticfire/pseuds/propheticfire
Summary: About a year after he survives the boat explosion, Tarrlok heads to the South Pole for some mental and physical healing. Avatar Korra is there too, recovering from her battle with Zaheer and the Red Lotus. They find themselves in each other's company again, and learn to heal from each other.





	A Good Team

**Author's Note:**

> This definitely started out as just a short idea I had, and then kind of spiraled out of control. There are a few loose ends that never got tied up, lol, and I kind of played fast and loose with the layout/setting of the South Pole locations. But I had a bunch of fun writing it, and I hope you enjoy it too!

He’s never been a spiritual man. But, after all that’s happened to him this past year or so, he figures he could use a little spiritual healing. He’ll never get his arm back, or wipe the scars from his face and body, but he hopes it can ease the phantom pain he keeps feeling. And maybe he can calm the restlessness in his heart, that keeps coming back to the explosion, keeps seeing his brother’s body in the water. Keeps wondering why _he_ survived instead. Because he shouldn’t have. By rights he shouldn’t have.

He charters passage on a boat going south. He’s going to see Master Katara. Maybe it’s a terrible idea; his family history with her is contentious, to put it mildly. But he’s been told she’s the best, and at this point he’s not sure where else to turn.

The Avatar is there too, also going to see Master Katara. He’s heard from various sources that a lot has happened to her as well, in the past year. He’d written her a letter, in his frustratingly sloppy non-dominant handwriting, letting her know he would keep to himself and not bother her, but he does run into her once on their voyage, in the galley. She drops an orange, and he picks it up without thinking. For a fraction of a second, there’s shock in her eyes—of course she hasn’t seen him like this, marred by the explosion—but she quickly averts her gaze, taking the orange with a quiet thank you.

Her father comes into the galley then, and Tarrlok makes his exit before they can exchange any words.

Life at the South Pole is quiet. But it’s not the peaceful quiet that he was hoping for. It’s an empty sort of quiet, a void that he keeps buzzing around the edges of. The physical healing is going well; Master Katara truly deserves her title. The constant ache from the hand that isn’t there has finally eased up, and with a few more sessions, the tingling, burning sensation in his face should dissipate. She hadn’t mentioned his family or his past, and he hadn’t offered any commentary either. She’d treated him as just another patient. She’d said he’d only get better if he wanted to, and he does, so he is.

But does he really?

What kind of life can he even build now? Stripped of his position, stripped of his bending, ostracized and on the run, he hadn’t seen a future then. And now he’s left with even less. And for what? Sometimes it feels better to stew in his own misery. He deserves it, after all. Why should he get to feel happy? Look what he’s done.

One day, he goes to the healing hut for his session, but the Avatar is there already. “Tarrlok, come in!” Master Katara calls. “Korra and I are just finishing up.” She’s standing off to the side while the Avatar holds herself up on support bars. He’s about to duck back out, but his presence must have distracted her, because she slips.

He’s halfway into the room before he realizes what he’s doing. It’s not fast enough, though, and the Avatar collapses to the floor with a frustrated cry. He stands there, arms awkwardly outstretched, unsure whether to step closer or not. She looks up at him, pain and anger in her face. But he sees her eyes drift to the stump of his right arm, and her expression seems to soften slightly.

“Would you…like some help?” he asks gently.

“Just…get my chair,” she says. “I’m done for today.”

He locates it and brings it to her. Without another word, she pulls herself up into it and wheels away. He watches her go.

The moment hangs heavy in the air, until finally Master Katara moves toward him. She doesn’t acknowledge his actions, but there’s an approving look in her eyes as she lays her hand on his scarred cheek.

The sessions seem to overlap more and more after that. Often, a joint meditation will end the Avatar’s session and begin Tarrlok’s. They exchange some pleasantries now, mostly hi and how are you and you’re looking better. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be getting out of the meditation itself, but it’s nice to be able to sit here with Korra in relative cordiality. Though seeing her pain now makes him regret his past actions even more, he feels less of that buzzing emptiness that made it hard to see a way past the void. Now it feels…not lighter, but…moveable. Like if he pushes at it, he can direct it ever so slightly. And take a step out from under it.

Taking steps is probably the hardest thing either he or Korra can do right now. His physical healing is over, but hers isn’t. They’ve switched to meditating before Korra’s sessions now, and he still ducks out before Katara starts working with her, but he’s started giving her words of encouragement. You’ll do great today, I believe in you, you’re stronger than you know. And by god she is. Even before, he’d always admired her heart and conviction. He’d be the first to acknowledge that a traumatic experience can change a person, but that spark of tenacity is still glowing hot in Korra. And every day she gets better and better.

She asks him to stay, one day, for her session. She wants to try walking around the room, and while Katara is a master waterbender, her arms aren’t as strong as they used to be, and Korra wants to know she’ll have support if she falls. His heart practically skips a beat. It’s trust. She’s showing him trust. In that moment, it really hits him: maybe he _can_ build a future. One not built on the sins and shadows of his father, or even on his own sins, but built on trust, and patience, and kindness. And maybe, _maybe,_ on forgiveness too.

She only grabs his arm once, to keep from stumbling. But once she’s got her feet under her, she looks up at him and thanks him. “Any time,” he says, and he means it.

He’s there for all her therapy sessions now. Not necessarily helping, but just being there in the room to support her seems to mean something to Korra. She’s always catching his eye, eyebrows raised as if to ask, “How am I doing?” And he always gives her a smile back, and a nod, to confirm that she’s doing great. He often thinks, in those moments, about how things had transpired between them before. How he’d given his support only when he wanted something from her, and cut her down and belittled her when he’d wanted her out of his way. How he’d let his own self-righteousness build and build until she’d—rightly—called him on it, and he’d lashed out at her with such violence. And yet here she is, looking to him for encouragement, and here _he_ is, giving it unconditionally.

There’s something he’s been wondering, though, and he finally asks her about it, as they’re leaving one of her sessions.

“Why aren’t your parents here for these?”

She looks at him. There’s more knowing in her gaze than he’s prepared for. “You mean, why aren’t my parents here instead of you?”

“I— Uh…”

Before he can come up with a more graceful response, she sighs, and turns to the path in front of them. “I knew you’d ask something like this eventually. I guess it’s a couple reasons, really. My parents… I don’t want them to see me like this. Struggling, like this. I know they love me, but I feel…ashamed, almost. I’ve always been so strong.”

Tarrlok’s gut twists. If nothing else, he knows what feeling ashamed for not living up to a parent’s expectations is like.

“As for why you specifically,” Korra continues, “well, you’re here.” She shrugs. That stings a little, to think she only keeps him around because it’s convenient. But she’s still talking. “And you’re here for kind of the same thing I am. So it feels, I don’t know, like…like you understand, maybe, a little better. And you’ve already seen me at my best, _and_ my worst. And I… We made a good team, before everything went sideways. And I still remember what that felt like. I guess, having the history there…helps. Kind of.”

They lapse into silence as they continue along the path. Not for the first time, he thinks that if he’d done any one of the things that he did to Korra differently, they might have remained allies to this day. Maybe even friends. A kind of bittersweet melancholy tugs at his heart, for the future that never was. For the hardship they’ve endured instead.

“Tarrlok?”

Korra’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts. He looks over at her. She’s wearing a strange expression on her face, something between that knowing look from before and a tentative curiosity. “Why don’t you ever wear your hair in a ponytail anymore?”

It’s his turn to admit something difficult. He should have known she’d return the favor. The answer is obvious, of course, but it’s the saying it out loud that has his face suddenly burning. He holds up what would have been both hands, the right one of course just a stump that ends below the elbow.

“I never really…figured out how to tie it back right, after…”

“Ah,” Korra says, like it confirms a suspicion. Then, “Would you like me to help you?”

He does his best to maintain composure. “That’s a generous offer, Korra, but maybe some other time. I have some…things to attend to.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

He nods, and she gives him a small smile before turning on the path toward her home.

Once he’s back in his own temporary hut, he collapses into a chair, heart beating faster than it should be. The flush in his face is from shame, he tells himself. Only from shame.

There’s a surprise for Korra the next day. Master Katara thinks she’s ready to start incorporating her bending into her therapy, now that her stance is strong enough. The excited _“Really?” _that Korra lets out nearly cleaves Tarrlok’s heart in two. It’s a big step, and it shows the progress she’s made. He’s proud of her. They’ll start with water, since it’s Korra’s natural element.

But as she and Katara settle into position and begin working through the basic waterbending forms, the sweet ache in Tarrlok’s heart turns bitter. He watches them pass a stream of water back and forth, and he can’t feel any of it. His muscles haven’t forgotten the movements, but the push and pull, the ebb and flow, the _power_ that used to run through him, is completely drained. Where once he could feel the water singing to him, there’s only emptiness.

Korra looks over at him with her raised-eyebrow glance, and he tries to return it with his customary smile. This seems to bolster her confidence, because suddenly she’s twirling the water around both her and Katara in an elegant coil.

It feels like a knife in his chest.

After the therapy, Tarrlok walks with Korra up to the split in the path, and she says she’ll see him in a few days for the next session. He smiles, and tells her of course, but the words feel hollow as they leave his lips. Walking back to his hut, he’s suddenly aware of how much water is actually around him. How much snow and ice he _could_ bend, if he’d still been able to. After over a year, he thought he’d learned to tune out the emptiness, to ignore the yawning void around and inside him where his waterbending used to be. But seeing Korra bend has snatched aside the thin veil of distance he’d managed to create. Alone and exposed, surrounded by so much of what he can no longer touch, he feels small. Pitifully small.

When he makes it to his hut, he curls up in bed, and even the warm furs can’t keep away the numbness that creeps over him.

A few days later there’s a knock at his door. It’s Korra, of course. She missed him at her therapy, and wants to know if he’s okay. It’s less eloquently put than that; more like, “Hey, Tarrlok, why’d you leave me hanging? You sick or something?” It’s shouted through the door, because he hasn’t opened it. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. He hasn’t left the house since her last session. He hasn’t bathed. He’s barely eaten. He just…doesn’t see the point. Of anything. Waterbending was his life. His identity. For good or ill, everything he was had been shaped and defined by his ability to bend. Who is he now that his bending is gone?

This whole time here, with Korra, he’d let himself be lulled into the delusion that they were in this together. That they were healing together. That they were, in a way, equals. But he’s never been her equal. She’s the Avatar. And he is nothing.

He tells her that yes, he’s not feeling well, and it’s probably best if she doesn’t see him right now. He wouldn’t want to get her sick. She says okay, and she hopes he feels better soon. It almost sounds like there’s disappointment in her voice. He’s probably just making that up, though; why would she be disappointed that she can’t see him? At this point, who would ever actually _want_ to see him?

When her footfalls die away, he slumps to the floor against the door. He can’t even bring himself to walk back into the bedroom.

He has no idea how long he’s been there when a strong knock reverberates into him through the door. “Hey Tarrlok!” comes the Avatar’s brash voice. “You still in there? Open up, I brought you some soup!”

He can’t bring himself to answer. Maybe, if he just sits quietly, she’ll leave.

“Tarrlok I know you’re still in there! Open up and take my soup or I’ll come through the door to give it to you!”

_That_ finally gets through to him.

“No, no, no Korra, do _not_ break down this door. I’ll… I’ll open it, just give me a few minutes.”

He scrambles to make himself presentable. Fresh clothes, at least, and a quick brush of his teeth and wash of his face. He scratches at the growth of stubble on his chin, but he’s already done all he can reasonably make time for, with the Avatar out in the cold. When he’s finished, he opens the door just slightly, intending to take the soup so she can be on her way. But she shoulders past him, plopping the soup on his table.

“You gotta have some while it’s still hot. I figured we could eat together.”

“Korra, I—” he begins, but he doesn’t have the strength to argue with her. “Thank you.”

He gets two bowls and spoons, and ladles each of them a serving. It’s thick and filmy, and there’s a very pungent odor emanating from it. She’s watching him with an eager expression. Suddenly, it dawns on him.

“Korra did you…did _you_ make this soup?”

She nods, with that same raised-eyebrow expression from her therapy. She wants to know how she did.

Tentatively, he takes a spoonful. It’s all he can do to not immediately retch it back out.

“That bad, huh?”

Tarrlok grimaces. “I appreciate the gesture, but this is an affront to Water Tribe cuisine.”

The Avatar squints at him. “And I suppose you can do better?”

“Actually I can.”

A ghost of a spark ignites in him. He _can_ cook. He’s _good_ at cooking. He can cook something good for her.

It’s the most alive he’s felt in three days.

He dumps both their bowls back into the soup container and pushes it toward the Avatar. “Dispose of that. I doubt even your polar bear dog would want it. Then meet me at the market in half an hour. We’re going to make a real meal.”

He hurries her out the door with her horrible soup. Once she’s gone, he finally properly bathes. The warm water is soothing, the heat permeating into his bones. It’ll never feel like it used to, but it feels good again, at least. He shaves too. Three days of growth is stubborn, but he manages. When he’s ready, he makes his way to the market.

Korra is already there. She smiles when she sees him. Despite himself, he feels a bit of that sweet ache come back over his heart. A part of him, he realizes, wants to believe that bright smile is only for him. If only he could endeavor to be worthy of it.

“You’re looking better,” she says. “You sure my soup didn’t help?” There’s a joking sparkle in her eyes.

Tarrlok shakes his head. “The only thing that soup helped was to further my conviction that your training skipped some very vital components, Avatar Korra.”

She stops in her tracks. “Did you just— Was that a… Was that a joke? You just made a joke!”

“Is that so unusual?” 

“I have _never_ heard you make a joke. A sarcastic comment, sure, but never a joke."

It’s his turn to pause. “Perhaps I’m…turning over a new leaf.”

She smiles again. “It’s nice.”

And suddenly the flush is back in his face.

They make their way through the market, gathering ingredients. Tarrlok tries to point out which flavors compliment each other. When they have enough, they go back to his hut, and he shows her how to prepare the meal. It’s a simple seaweed stew, a staple of the North, and he finds he’s happy to teach it to her. If nothing else, he appreciates that she learned how to chop and slice the ingredients. He can still do that with his non-dominant hand, but it’s slow.

Once the stew is cooking, there’s nothing to do but wait. They sit at the table together, in silence. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Korra takes a breath

“Tarrlok, you don’t…have to come to my therapy sessions, if you don’t want to. I can tell the bending bothered you. Please, don’t feel like you have to be there. I understand. Amon…took my bending too. Mostly. I got it back. I’m the Avatar. But I know how that feels, and I’m sorry.”

It’s a halting, awkward speech, almost as awkward as the silence. But it comes from her heart, he can tell.

Her hands are on the table. For a fleeting second, the urge to reach out and grasp them comes over him. But he mentally shakes it away. He can’t think like that.

“I’m sorry too,” he says instead. “I didn’t know that your bending was taken. I’m sorry for what my family’s legacy has put you through.”

Her eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I meant! Honestly? Yeah what happened with you really sucked, and it hurt a lot, but I’ve had way worse since then. That’s like a drop in the bucket compared to why I’m here.” She tries to laugh it off. It comes out a little too shrill.

Tarrlok closes his eyes briefly, a defense against the pang of sorrow that washes over him. “I truly hope that you can heal from all that you’ve endured.”

“Thanks,” she says, quietly now. “You too.”

They lapse into silence again. Soon, the bubbling of the stew indicates it’s finished. He serves it up, and the blissful look that crosses Korra’s face when she takes the first bite is almost enough to make him feel whole again.

“Wow, this is amazing! Yeah, it’s way better than mine.”

“You could do it too, with practice,” he finds himself saying. “No one’s good at everything the first time.”

Since when did he get so wise?

They finish their meal in good spirits, and he sends Korra home with a bowl of leftovers and an approximate recipe for her to practice with. He can’t promise that he’ll make it to her bending therapy, at least not right away, and she understands. She can’t promise that she’ll make amazing soup right away, and it pulls a genuine smile from his lips. When he’s finally alone again, there’s a little less emptiness around him, and just a little more warmth.

It’s several weeks later when the unthinkable happens. An accident in one of Korra’s therapy sessions. She’d been progressing rapidly, adding more and more difficulty, and then, in an instant, she’d twisted wrong, and lost the feeling in her legs. Master Katara had managed to restore some of it, but it’s a major setback. Korra will have to start slow again, and wait for her body to do its own healing.

“Why are you telling me all this?” Tarrlok asks, when Master Katara finishes speaking.

Katara sets down her tea and fixes him with a wise, keen, too-deep gaze. “I know who you are, Tarrlok. I know your past, and I know your family. I know you’re Yakone’s son. I know you were once a bloodbender.”

The burn of shame returns to his face. He tries to look away, but Katara leans toward him across the table, her penetrating gaze locking him in place.

“I _also_ know that you have tried your whole life to get out of your father’s shadow. And that, for the most part, whatever your motivations, you faithfully served the citizens of the United Republic. I won’t say that you’re a good person or a bad person; we all have the capacity for both types of action. But I have seen you, Tarrlok, choose good. And I’ve seen you do it when it’s not the easiest or most self-serving choice to make. It is these choices that define who we are. It’s why I agreed to see you and to help in your healing.”

She leans back in her chair and picks up her tea once more. “You’re important to Korra. And I think, if I’m not mistaken, she’s important to you too. And she’s going to need your help.”

It almost doesn’t register that she can see that Korra is important to him. All he hears is that Korra needs help.

“What can I do?”

“Just be there for her, for now. That’s a good start. The form it ends up taking will depend on the shape of the vessels it flows into.”

She gives him an approving look—the same look she’d given him all those months ago, when he’d first walked in on Korra’s therapy session and tried to help her up—and thanks him for the tea.

He spends the rest of the day trying to come up with a plan. Korra’s next session is in four days. Should he just show up? Should he make more seaweed stew? Should he try to talk to her before then? It occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know where to find her. Aside from their market excursion, they’d only ever gone together as far as the split in the path from the healing hut. He’d assumed she’d gone home after that, but he has no idea where that is. And it might be presumptuous to find out.

Master Katara’s advice had sounded every bit like a cliché, but the more he thinks about it, the more he sees the truth in it. It’s a bittersweet thought. He can’t bend water anymore, but in order to help Korra he himself will have to bend, to fit the shape of what she needs. So he can’t really plan for anything, can he?

In the end, he settles for making some seaweed noodles and showing up toward the end of her session, so the noodles are still hot. Korra is back on the support bars, albeit only using one of them to steady herself as she walks. Tarrlok sits on his usual bench in the corner of the room and waits. When Korra’s done, Master Katara helps her to the bench beside him and then takes her leave.

Tarrlok dishes up the seaweed noodles. Korra takes them with a quiet thank you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner,” Tarrlok says. “I wish I had.”

“It’s okay,” Korra replies, slurping up some noodles in an uncharacteristically careful manner. “I’m a little difficult to be around anyway, these days.”

Tarrlok shakes his head. “I’m sure that’s not true. It looks like you’re making progress.”

Korra’s face twists into a scowl. “I can feel my legs again, yeah, but they don’t seem to wanna do what I tell them. I don’t understand. I was doing so _well_. How could this happen?”

The frustration is evident in her voice. It’s a familiar feeling. He looks at the stump of his right arm. “I think,” he says, realization reaching him only as he says the words out loud, “sometimes, we sabotage ourselves. For whatever reason. Maybe we’re afraid to heal, or maybe we don’t think we deserve to.”

“You think this is on purpose?”

“No, Korra, listen. I can’t say exactly why this happened. But I know that the work it takes to get better is worth it. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Again, he’s overcome by the urge to take her hand, or put his hand on her shoulder, or _something._ Just to let her know that he’s there for her. But he thinks better of it. He’s balancing his noodles anyway.

Korra gives him a small smile. “You know Tarrlok? I’m kinda glad you’re still around.”

He feels the flush return to his face. “Yes,” he says, “so am I. And Korra? I’m glad you’re here too.”

They’ve started going for walks, now, as part of her therapy. He’s not always there for the sessions themselves, but almost every afternoon they wander the paths through town, even sometimes as far out as the beach by the harbor mouth, if she’s feeling up to it. There’s a bench there she likes to rest on, and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore reminds him of his once-favorite spot by the Yue Bay in Republic City. She usually takes his right arm, for support, leaving his left hand free. When they sit, he’ll switch sides, so he can hand her steamed buns or pastries or share a thermos of hot tea, or—on one and only one occasion—to pick up the corner of the shawl that had slipped from her shoulder, and place it gently back over. She hadn’t worn the shawl after that. He hopes it’s because she fussed with it all afternoon, rather than because of his actions.

They don’t talk about her therapy. She doesn’t want to think about it on their walks. They talk about the weather instead, and the outcome of the latest pro bending match, and which South Pole foods he likes best, and how big that kid of the sea prune merchant has gotten. And sometimes they talk about growing up in the White Lotus complex, and what Republic City was like before Amon, and how they thought their lives would turn out, and what they still wish they could accomplish. He surprises himself when he admits to her he’s been thinking about writing a book. Nothing groundbreaking, and certainly not a memoir, but just something small. Like one of those pulp paperbacks from Republic City’s newsstands.

“Those are all either spy thrillers or romances!” she had said, also surprised. “Which one would you write?”

He’d simply grinned and said she’d have to wait and find out.

Their walks quickly become his favorite part of the day. He finds himself counting down after lunch to when it’s time for them to meet. Korra is so much improved: there’s a brightness to her eyes again, and a spring in her step. She doesn’t need his assistance anymore. And yet, she still comes by, and she still takes his arm when they walk. He tries not to think about the way his heart skips when she does. It’s just their ritual, nothing more. A habit that neither one of them see the need to break. He feels more at peace, walking with her, than he ever has before. There’s no pressure to perform, or to get things right, no expectations to live up to. He can just _be._ The nightmares have stopped too. Thinking of his brother still brings a sadness, but it doesn’t haunt him like it did when he first came here.

And Korra…

There’s a depth to her too, that she didn’t have when he first met her. Her own sadness to carry. But her heart is the biggest of anyone he’s ever known, and she’s full of courage, and she never stops trying to do better. Once, when they were both different people, he had admired her for her willingness to go to extremes for what she wanted and believed in. They’d shared that quality. It had nearly killed them both. Now, he still admires her, for her tenacity to simply persevere.

Also, her smile is infectious. And he’s starting to think that his purpose in life is to make sure Korra has reasons to smile.

There’s one thing, though—one selfish thing—that he wants. Just once. He gets his chance one day, when they’re out on the beach by the harbor mouth. They’d just finished the last of the sweet red bean buns he’d made. Korra sits beside him on the bench, gazing across the sea with a content expression. Her left hand is in her lap, and her right hand rests on the bench between them, palm slightly upturned, relaxed. He might never get a more perfect opportunity.

Slowly, tentatively, without looking, he reaches out, and gently slips his hand into hers.

The answering squeeze of her fingers curling around his nearly fills his heart to bursting.

But Korra turns suddenly, and leans toward him, and for the briefest moment, he finds that her lips are on his.

It’s over as suddenly as it began. She looks away, face flushed. But she’s still holding his hand.

“Tarrlok, I—”

She sticks out her bottom lip. It’s a nervous habit that he thinks she’s picked up from him, actually.

“I’m…still not feeling completely like myself,” she continues. “I still feel…blocked, somehow. I want to go on a journey. I talked with Master Katara, and there are some people I think I need to find. I want—”

She stops abruptly and turns to face him. There’s a question in her eyes.

“I want you to come with me.”

If he thought his heart was full before, that was nothing compared to the cascade of emotion coursing through him now. Of course he’d go with her. He’d follow her to the ends of the earth and back, if she’d let him.

“Nothing would make me happier.”

The relief is clear on her face. She squeezes his hand, long and tightly, and then she smiles, radiant and warm. He feels his breath catch in his throat. She reaches out with her free hand and gently, as tentatively as he’d reached out to her, cups his scarred cheek in her palm.

“We still make a good team, Tarrlok.”

All he can think to do is echo her words from two and a half years ago in Republic City, when he’d expressed the same sentiment to her.

“Yeah. We do.”

She leans in and her lips find his again, a little more sure this time. He gives in to it, kissing her back. They linger there, lost in kisses, until the setting sun throws golden pink light over the horizon.


End file.
